“I haven’t any trouble. There is nothing you can do for me. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Poirot said, watching her:

“I am talking about candles….”

He saw the terror leap into her eyes. She cried:

“I won’t listen to you. I won’t listen.”

She ran across the beach, swift as a young gazelle and went flying up the zigzag path.

Poirot shook his head. He looked grave and troubled.

Chapter Eleven

Eleven

Inspector Colgate was reporting to the Chief Constable.

“I’ve got on to one thing, sir, and something pretty sensational. It’s about Mrs. Marshall’s money. I’ve been into it with her lawyers. I’d say it’s a bit of a shock to them. I’ve got proof of the blackmail story. You remember she was left fifty thousand pounds by old Erskine? Well, all that’s left of that is about fifteen thousand.”

The Chief Constable whistled.

“Whew, what’s become of the rest?”

“That’s the interesting point, sir. She’s sold out stuff from time to time, and each time she’s handled it in cash or negotiable securities—that’s to say she’s handed out money to someone that she didn’t want traced. Blackmail all right.”

The Chief Constable nodded.

“Certainly looks like it. And the blackmailer is here in this hotel. That means it must be one of those three men. Got anything fresh on any of them?”

“Can’t say I’ve got anything definite, sir. Major Barry’s a retired Army man, as he says. Lives in a small flat, has a pension and a small income from stocks. But he’s paid in pretty considerable sums into his account in the last year.”

“That sounds promising. What’s his explanation?”

“Says they’re betting gains. It’s perfectly true that he goes to all the large race meetings. Places his bets on the course too, doesn’t run an account.”

The Chief Constable nodded.

“Hard to disprove that,” he said. “But it’s suggestive.”

Colgate went on.

“Next, the Reverend Stephen Lane. He’s bona fide all right—had a living at St. Helen’s, Whiteridge, Surrey—resigned his living just over a year ago owing to ill health. His ill health amounted to his going into a nursing home for mental patients. He was there for over a year.”

“Interesting,” said Weston.

“Yes, sir. I tried to get as much as I could out of the doctor in charge but you know what these medicos are—it’s difficult to pin them down to anything you can get hold of. But as far as I can make out, his reverence’s trouble was an obsession about the devil—especially the devil in the guise of a woman—scarlet woman—whore of Babylon.”

“H’m,” said Weston. “There have been precedents for murder there.”